Excerpt Between Him and Her
by ser3ne eternity
Summary: I trip, I stumble, I fall and I want so badly to speak but the words are stuck. And I sometimes think that you might never know.


_NOTE;;_

_The two characters mentioned are Haruno Sakura and Uzumaki Naruto. Nothing better than a little sexual tension right? In this, I've made it so Naruto is 4 years older than Sakura—no particular reason why, mostly because I guess I think it'd be nice to see Naruto as something other than the dense person he's normally portrayed as in the anime and manga. Sakura is 17, Naruto is 21._

_The idea is generally set after a major mission is taken with Sakura and Naruto going together and are separated from their squad that Naruto is supposed to be the leader of. They run into opposition from an enemy village—I haven't decided which—and during the fight, when a barrage of kunai are thrown meant for Naruto, Sakura takes the hit for him this time since he's always the one protecting her._

* * *

Between Him and Her  
-the beginnings of tension-

* * *

There was yelling and screaming and shouting in his apartment. Insults and hurtful words were flung as easily as though it were second nature, with cold looks thrown into the mix almost as though it was an afterthought they sought to fulfill. Adrenaline, hurt and _frustration_ ran through their veins fast and hard and she could barely think straight past the blood pounding through her.

All she knew was that she should keep yelling, keep screaming if only to make him hear her.

Because she didn't think he could. She didn't think he was listening to her because he was using that tone on her, that same calm voice that she didn't think suited him. Because he wasn't always cool or calm or anything, he was always so warm and alive and _open_. And she wondered how he could possibly switch from one role to another, because there was suddenly a hint of another tone in his voice.

It was the tone he used when he used to scold her for something back when she was still eleven going on twelve, when she was still a kid and didn't know any better, when hormones had reigned supreme and she could only think about boys, boys, boys, _boys. _Except she wasn't a kid anymore. She wasn't. And she sure as _hell_ wasn't twelve anymore. Because she was seventeen.

She was _seventeen_ now for God's sake. _Seventeen_, a young woman—only four years younger than he was but he was still using that _damn_ tone on her as though she were still a _child._

And it pissed her off, how calm and collected his eyes were, like he wasn't at all annoyed with her for screaming at him when she was furious as all hell that _he _wasn't yelling back. She didn't _care_ how twisted that sounded, she just wanted to matter. She just wanted to be worth enough to him to be able to provoke a reaction.

And all he could do was act so...so..._freaking_..._unruffled._

What the _hell._

She wanted to hit him because of this, wanted to hit him _for_ this. For hurting her like this. She wanted to _hit_ him, _hurt _him like he was hurting her...wanted to..._hate _him. Because she should. She _should_ hate his fucking sorry ass.

But she couldn't and the tears she refused to cry stung in her eyes so _bad _and God, she just wanted him to feel something, _anything..._anything. Because he meant so much. Because she cared, cared so _freaking _much because no one else mattered as much as he did.

And she just had to go and get attached. So, so..._attached_.

Ugh, she was so _stupid!_

It was ridiculous.

But she couldn't help it. She didn't know why, or when it started or how the _hell_ it even happened.

Maybe it was because he'd been there when no one else had. Paid attention to the little things that no one else noticed or saw. He'd taught her so much, even when he didn't have to. He'd been there for her—_always_—like any good friend would. He'd scared off all her unwanted suitors because she'd never had a boyfriend—never really wanted one—and he had always intimidated the ones that were brave enough to come somewhere even close as though he were her protective big brother, like she was his little sister.

But she didn't want to be a little sister to him. She didn't _want _that.

She wanted _him_...

And suddenly, something clicks and she wonders ashenly if she said that out loud because he stops mid-sentence to look at her, _really_ look at her, watching her like he's trying to understand, to decide. But she doesn't _understand_ what there is to decide though. Because she doesn't get it. Doesn't get why he looks at her like that, smiles at her the way he does, talks and laughs with her the way he does. She just doesn't _understand_ why everything has to be _such_ a _rollercoaster_ with him.

Then, her breath catches and he's touching her, _really_ touching her—the way she wants him to, the way she didn't think he'd ever touch her. Because his hands are hot on her skin and he's touching her like he wants to and the way she's pressed up against the wall isn't at all uncomfortable for her back.

Because she's not thinking about her back. She's thinking about the way he's suddenly _kissing _her. And she feels like her breath's gone and she might never get it back and that her stomach might never go back to normal because it's coiled so tightly inside she feels like she might burst, his kiss is so hot.

Their breaths mix and their breathing is harsh, heavy and fast and she wants him. She wants him, wants him, _wants him_. And the yearning and longing in her chest pangs so crystal clear and multiplies ten-fold; she wants to cry, she wants him. _So. Freaking. Bad._ It's all she can think about.

It's not even funny.

And it hurts, it hurts more than the physical pain that came when she pushed him out of the way and took the hits for herself, remembering the way the cold metal of the kunai bit through her flesh the way they would've done to him. But it's bittersweet in the way that it's all she's ever wanted—for him to be with her like this—just like she had wanted him to look at her with that frenzied, _terrified_ look he gave her before darkness took over and she couldn't open her eyes, because it let her know that she was _important_.

So she kisses him back, and clutches to him tightly because she doesn't know if this'll ever happen again, doesn't know but wishes she did—because this might be her only chance. And the pain that comes with knowing this burns itself into her, so she doesn't—_can't_ forget this even if she wanted to. And it keeps coming in short bursts and hot flashes before dying down behind her eyes into a cold like chilled sweat, that she tightens her grip around him to be as close as insanely possible, to anchor herself to reality because she knows it's slipping away from her.

She absently thinks to herself that she can't help but be very afraid of the strong feeling in her gut and in her chest and just _everywhere_...because she doesn't know what it _is_ and she's deathly scared of knowing, because it just might make things worse than they already are.

* * *

He doesn't know if he should be doing this. Holding, touching, _kissing_ her like this. Like she's his. Like she belongs to him and no one else can have her. Because it's wrong. It's so _amazingly_ wrong on so many different levels, but there's something that pulls him to her, like there's something there that _wants_ him to _be_ with her. And it's like an annoying voice he can't freaking ignore.

He tells himself over and over again, that he's insane, that this is wrong. That he shouldn't be _doing_ this, damn it! But he can't _think_ right when she's holding onto him like this, when her hair's fallen from it's place for once to brush against the side of his jaw, and he feels her hand resting on the side of his chest where his hearts beats an unsteady tempo against her own. And the world suddenly won't stop spinning until it's satisfied that he's lightheaded enough to fall flat on his face.

He's so out of control, he can't even _begin_ to hit himself for all the ways he is a stupid, idiotic, misguided _imbecile_. He wants to kick himself for his stupid hormones and his stupid, _stupid_ instincts but knows that it wouldn't make a difference because he probably would've kissed her anyway, whether it was in the moment or not, because he just plain _wanted_ to.

He just can't stop himself, _couldn't_ stop himself even if he tried. Because there's something about her, something so irresistibly _amazing_ that he practically doesn't care anymore.

Maybe it's because he loves her—because he _knows _he loves her. Yes, he's aware of this fact. Very much so, actually. At first, he hadn't believed it himself. But he's actually known it for a while now, considering he's never quite been good at denial, because that's how it started. There were signs along the way. Just small, insignificant things. Yet they were things that made it all the more apparent and important. After all, how could he possibly know the small details of how she liked her coffee and give a shit? He'd keep denying the truth that he loves her to save face and possibly save them both from unnecessary pain if he could, but it's gotten to the point where even if he _could_ stop himself from loving her, he'd keep loving her anyway.

All he can think about, all he can _feel_ right now is her against him, her heart beating, her breath brushing against his cheek and he doesn't realize that he's moved his hands from her where they rested on her waist, to lace their fingers together up against the wall. The line between right and wrong sways and blurs until he's so far gone, he might never come back.

And it scares him, how she has this kind of power over him and the fact that she might not feel the same way runs through his mind because she's so much better than him, deserves better than him and he can't understand why she would ever _choose_ someone like him when she could have _anyone_ she wanted. So to make up for this, he kisses her and kisses her for all he's worth—which isn't a lot, mind you—and hopes to God that it's enough, trying his best to douse the fear even if it's just for now.

Because it's a strange thing for someone like him to be scared, because he's never been scared of any_thing _or any_one_.

But he needs this. He needs this so bad, to know that this isn't just some figment of his imagination, some sick twisted dream that's going to end soon. Because the idea of nearly losing her earlier today, had never terrified him more. And when his insatiable need is finally satisfied, he pulls away and looks at the way her hair is mussed and her lips are bruised with something closely resembling pride as he tries to catch his breath.

A part of him realizes this is dangerous. But this part of him is a small part, and a part of his mind that is so small that he hasn't listened to it ever since he met her. This part of him is his logic, and it makes it all the more difficult to listen to when he's never really been a logical person, when he's thrown caution to the wind so many times, he can't even remember how many stupid stunts he's pulled because of the lack of it.

Throw in the fact that the rest of his mind is occupied with thoughts of her nearly twenty-four seven—something that has tormented his intellect for how long?—and he has no logic at all. The fact that he _knows_ this very _important_, very _crucial _fact, lets him know how totally and utterly _screwed_ he is. Because if she tells him that _one _word—just that _one _word—than all will be fucked and everything will have gone to hell.

Because then he'll never, _ever_ be able to let her go.

Right now, he still has a small chance of freeing them both, and letting themselves live their lives without each other painlessly, so he hopes, _prays_ that she doesn't tell him, doesn't say it. That she doesn't say the 'L' word even if deep, _deep down_, it's what he wants to hear the most.

Because he's guilty enough already and he doesn't think he deserves having her like this, doesn't think he deserves _her_. And something in him can't help but think that she's seen the pleading in his eyes because the next thing he knows she's on her feet and he's half walking, half stumbling towards the bed that she's pushing him towards.

In the back of his mind, he can't help but think that he's just about to fuck everything up—but he tries to reassure himself that he can't possibly screw up any more than he already has—because God damn it, he's thought _enough_. Because there's skin on skin contact and now _she's _kissing _him_ and all his common sense, thought process, and just the ability of thought _period, _has been thrown out the window and he knows he won't be getting it back for a long time.

He knows that later on, he's going to kick himself for being _such _a _dipshit. _

* * *

_Hey there. This is my first Naruto Fanfic—sort of. I know it's a little vague and confusing but it's just a oneshot_—_more of a drabble really, __for a future project I hope to work on. I don't know when I'll start the actual story as I've still got other things I've promised to finish—but you know how it is when you get that idea and just have to write it down—but if anyone's interested in helping me out or offering some advice, I'd be more than grateful to listen since I'm only a humble writer hoping to improve. Your input is very much appreciated._

_Thanks for taking the time to read this._

_-ser3ne eternity._


End file.
